A Dramatic Announcement

A restless tide swept through the ragtag crowd. Now intrigued, they leaned forward, their breaths held as one. Whatever she was going to reveal, it was going to be a doozie. And if there was something the Sassy Palms crowd loved, it was a doozie. Slowly, dramatically, the fourteen chunky gold bangles clanging at her wrist, Shandalier raised her left hand and laid it on her shoulder pad. Two quick tugs, a pause, then another quick tug.

Beyond the heady glare of the spotlight that now flooded her, Shandalier could make out Franklyn’s ridiculously handsome silhouette as he rushed to the front foyer. It had been a full week – and God only knew how many extra dry vodka martinis – since Shandalier had instructed he keep his eyes on her if anything sudden and unexpected should happen. The shoulder pad tug was her signal to him to run as discreetly as possible and lock the ornately carved front doors to the Sassy Palms. They were the only doors in and out of the building. Naturally such a situation was utterly against the City of Abbotsford's fire regulations, but as long as Shandalier continued to bestow the fire inspector with those closed-door…ahem… favours, that flagrant flouting of the law was SO not going to be a problem.

Secure in the knowledge that nobody could escape Abbotsford’s most fabulene drag bar, Shandalier gripped the microphone imperceptibly tighter. She was about to gamble with her entire future. This was the moment from which all future moments would be measured. She would either triumph, the adoration by the Sassy Palms patrons and cast gushing to new heights, or tonight would herald the start of a bitter and humiliating descent into a half-forgotten existence littered with cheap booze, no-brand lipstick and martini olives from the Not Quite Right store.

“I…” she announced to the crowd, “…am a VICTIM!” She waited until their gasps subsided. Any drag queen worth her weight in nipple rouge knew when to pause. She continued: “A victim of BLACKMAIL!” Again gasps filled the room. “And I know for a fact that the despicable pile of trash who is blackmailing me is, at the very moment, IN THIS BUILDING!”

Of course, Shandalier knew nothing of the sort. She had no idea who the hell was blackmailing her, let alone where the hell that person was right at this very minute. But at some point during her already-legendary rendition of 'Leave it There' (in the style of Clara Ward) she recalled reading a Reader’s Digest article which stated that 96% of blackmail victims are at the mercy of someone they see everyday. So chances were that whomever was blackmailing her was in this very room. It was a gamble to be sure, but Shandalier Wilson had some so far against odds that towered so high they seemed unsurpassable. But nevertheless, she had survived and she wasn’t about to be brought down. Well, not yet anyways.

“The doors of my establishment have been locked,” Shandalier told the shocked gathering. “Nobody is going home until the guilty party has been flushed out like a high colonic. Everybody remain where they—”

A high-pitched scream shot across the stage like a ninja star. The clatter of cheap stilettos rat-a-tat-tatted off the left side of the stage. Shandalier spun around in time to see a headdress of cascading yellow feathers and fake peacock plumes disappear behind the end of the curtain. Shandalier pointed one of her inch-long acrylic nails.

“STOP THAT TREACHEROUS DRAG QUEEN!”